The Choices We Make
by EarlyLearningCentre
Summary: You choose the path you take Harry, no matter what your past or your present is, no matter who your parents or your people were. You choose your path. And you chose the wrong one."
1. Chapter 1

If the situation hadn't been so serious she probably would have laughed.

Her late husband's brother lay dead on the floor, ginger hair dyed a far deeper shade of red. It made an interesting contrast, she thought, her mind still in shock. The blood and the white skin. He almost reminded her of Snow White, only she was sure Snow White didn't have freckles.

She was also sure Snow White came back from her apparent death and again she knew much as she wished it otherwise, that Fred Weasley wasn't going to get up. Just like Bill wasn't going to argue with his mother, Percy wasn't going to complain about the twins and Ron, her beloved, "I'd die for you", "the feelings mutual" husband, was never going to complain about her reading or her cooking or her extreme and probably over protectiveness of Rose or…

The situation suddenly didn't seem so funny. Particularly when the death eaters began to advance towards her. The room was too small for her to back away much and trying manoeuvre towards the door when you're outnumbered three to one, carrying your two year old daughter and unarmed except for a small knife hidden in your shoe is impossible.

She cradled Rose's head protectively, twisting her body as much as possible in an attempt to shield her, Not that it would do much good. Hermione Weasley knew that if they wanted to, they would kill her then casually step over he body to get to her daughter. Her and Ron's precious, beautiful daughter.

Her back hit the nursery wall. Ok, the back away and hope that a miracle saves her ( the Order, Dumbledore, legions of demons from the lowest level of hell, hey she wasn't particularly picky) plan hadn't worked. The part of her brain that almost made her a Ravenclaw told her there was no way out of this situation, the larger part of her brain that made her a Gryffindor accepted this. Then told her not to go down without a fight.

While she had been working this out (in the space of about ten long , agonising seconds), two of the Death Eaters had removed their masks. Hermione really wished they hadn't. She preferred not knowing who her soon to be killers were. Having them revealed to be class mates even occasionally reluctant partners (very reluctant, insulting partners but partners nevertheless) was sickening.

"Hello Malfoy" she said, inclining her head to the supercilious blonde on her right. He nodded his head in return.

"Good to see you again Ms Weasley" he said, no trace of ridicule in his voice. There had been a time when she would have given anything to converse with Malfoy without him tormenting her, now the absence of his insults scared her.

"How's your father?" she asked. That got a reaction even if it was only a slight tightening around the jaw. Hermione knew well how Lucius Malfoy was. She had been part of the raid that lost him his legs.

Malfoy's face had taken on his customary sneer with if it's possible even more malice than usual. Hermione smiled triumphantly. It had been a cheap shot, but it was probably going to be the last one she ever gave. And she was definitely not going to spend her last few moments on God's Earth feeling guilty about hurting Malfoy.

"What about yours, Nott?". That was an even cheaper shot. It was Hermione herself who had sent the curse that killed Nott Senior. Admittedly he had already been dying, a slow painful death that the murdering rapist had deserved. But it had been Hermione who had finished it.

Nott lacked Malfoy's control and it was only the quick actions of the middle Death Eater, the only one still masked that stopped the curse Nott unleashed from killing Hermione. A sharp grab of the wrist sent it slightly to the left of Hermione, obliterating the cream coloured cradle that Rose had previously used.

The flash of red startled Rose and she screamed, continuing to sob long after the red had died away. How did we get here Hermione thought, rocking Rose gently to quiet her cries. How did it start? Were we always going to end up like this, classmate against classmate, friend against friend even in some cases sibling against sibling? A laugh did escape her lips then, a mocking, mad laugh. And she whispered hoarsely under her breath.

"We were dammed from the start".

The Death Eaters had stopped advancing now, they were barely two metres away from her and were watching her with cruel yet slightly frightened eyes as Hermione Granger, the Gryffindor mudblood and smartest witch of her age stared at them with wild, mad eyes.

She laughed again, a bitter, cold laugh that would have done any Death Eater proud and caused the ones standing before her to flinch ever so slightly.

"Well look here." She said, more venom dripping from her voice than anyone ever thought possible. "We've got Malfoy, we've got Nott, which means we all know who's standing in the centre". Her words, her tone even her body language was poisonous and everyone, including Rose could feel it. And everyone, including Rose was trying to distance themselves from the young woman doing an excellent impression of a spitting cobra.

"Yes" Hermione said, pushing herself off the wall and walking slowly towards the middle, masked Death Eater. "We all know who you are." She faced down the centre Death Eater under the watchful gaze of both Nott and Malfoy. Leaning towards him, her daughter on her hip still clutching her and crying, Hermione stretched herself up and searched under the hood for where the skull mask met skin. Tearing it off and throwing it to one side, she smiled viciously and she knew she wasn't imagining the flinch then.

She stepped back, looking at the now unmasked Death Eater with hate filled, mad, mad eyes, still cradling her daughter.

"Hello Harry."


	2. Chapter 2

He stared back at her with empty eyes, refusing to react to her mocking disdain. The lack of reaction just made her angrier even as it scared her. This cold, calculating man wasn't her Harry, not the one she knew. Her Harry would react, her Harry would insult her back but her Harry wouldn't be wearing Death Eater robes.

"Are you going to kill me Harry? Kill Rose? After all you've already got Ron, the rest of Gryffindor are dropping like flies. Why don't you see if you can get the complete set?"

Again there was no reaction. No reaction from any of them. They just stood and stared. Not only did it freak Hermione out but it angered her, why was she the only one feeling anything? Why was she the only one suffering? She just wanted a reaction, a reminder that she was alive, that she still had the power to hurt.

No she wanted them to snap, to get angry because when Death Eaters get angry, they make mistakes. Mistakes that could save Rose's life. To hell with her own, she couldn't see much point in living it without Ron, without Rose, her Rs as she called them.

If I just get them angry enough, I can make a dash for my bedroom she thought. I could use the portkey. It only carries one but that's enough to save Rose. The idea of her daughter growing up without knowing her was repulsive to Hermione but it was better than the alternative she thought, she hoped. Harry and Voldemort really weren't good poster boys for orphans in the wizarding world.

She had another motive for trying to make them angry as well. One so feared, so secret that she buried it deep and refused to acknowledge it. She knew what happened to the prisoners of the Death Eaters, she'd cleaned up after their revels. A wayward curse when trying to escape would be a mercy compared to that. A mercy she was going to make sure Rose would enjoy. If only she could make them angry.

The Death Eaters, Malfoy, Nott and Harry had just stood there while she came to that conclusion. As she screwed her courage to the sticking place and prepared to fight and flee (if luck was on her side). That was the trouble with old classmates. They know how to push all your buttons. And best friends know the best buttons.

The madness was back now, if indeed it had ever left. Hermione felt it fill her, felt the recklessness of someone who had nothing left to lose. She refused to think about her imminent death, about the imminent death of her daughter. All that was left was the madness and the freedom and the hate.

Imminent death brought no peace for Hermione.

"Do you recognise this situation Harry? Feeling any déjà vu?" Hermione asked, a twisted smile on her face. The Death Eaters slowly began to advance towards her but she didn't feel threatened. She was in too deep to care.

"Come on, think really, really hard" she said in a mocking baby voice. Anyone hearing her voice could have almost mistaken it for Bellatrix's, it was filled with so much madness and malice. "No recognition at all Harry. Oh I'm surprised at you, what would your parents think?"

Harry's face lit up in anger and his clenched fist tightened around his wand as he changed his grip.

Talking about Harry's parents was another low blow, his entire life had been shaped by the simple fact that they were murdered. Their deaths had out him on the path that lead him to today. But Hermione didn't care. Orphans weren't so rare in the wizarding world anymore. And orphans who joined the side that made them orphans don't deserve any sympathy anyway she thought as she continued to twist the knife she'd stuck metaphorically of course though she wasn't adverse to making it literal) in Harry's gut.

"I can see how you might be confused Harry. You never were the brightest person, were you Harry. Too concerned with quiditch and your mates. Funny isn't it how your quiditch team, your friends are all dead. Come here to finish the job. Eliminate everyone who remembers Voldemort's right hand was once his worst enemy. Was once a Gryffindor, was once a good guy."

Hermione enjoyed watching Harry wrestle for control as she taunted him. She hated him so much more than any other Death Eater and watching him struggle, knowing he was affected by her, made her feel so …

Powerful. Weak. Happy. Sad. Evil. Good. Everything and nothing. She hated the fact that he had so much power over her. Other Death Eaters couldn't faze her but he could. Because with him it was personal, totally personal. She's cared about him. Which is why she was prepared to hit below the belt.

Again and again and again.

"There are, of course, slight differences in the situation." She continued, despite the advancing Death Eaters and the whimpering child she was holding. "It's the brother in law not the father who rushed to protect, to fight even without his wand. There are three Death Eaters, not one Dark Lord and obviously the child in question is older and female. But still the situations are very similar."

Malfoy and Nott had understood what she was referring to by now and were glancing warily at Harry, waiting for him to come to the same conclusion.

Hermione put Rose down, hoping that she would run to the portkey during a distraction. She stepped closer to Harry and leaned in, eyes glittering with malice.

"This is the way your parents died."

That's when Harry lost it. He lunged at her, smashing her against the wall and watched her lifeless body fall to the floor, blood beginning to leak out of her head. The anger seemed to evaporate the moment Hermione was unconscious and he was back to the same empty malevolence as earlier. He knelt down beside the unconscious women and moved some of the bushy hair, already congealing with blood out of her face. One hand lazily traced an old scar, hidden just below the hairline.

"Hello Hermione."


	3. Chapter 3

Harry was so focused on Hermione that he didn't notice the mop of red hair that ran past his elbow. But Malfoy did.

"Nott, get her!" he yelled, making a grab for the running child himself, cursing their foolishness in allowing themselves to be distracted by Hermione.

Luck was on Rose's side though, well luck and hell of a lot of practise evading her parents when it's bedtime. She dodged under Malfoy's arms, swerved around Nott and ran out of the room giggling. She though it was fun to play chase with the weird men in silly robes. And mummy and uncle Fred were asleep she justified, they wouldn't know if she didn't follow the rules.

Rose had never been closer to catastrophe than at that moment, the moment she ran right instead of left. Left was where Hermione's bedroom was, left was where the portkey was, left was the way to safety. Rose knew this, it had been drilled into her since she was old enough to understand it. She'd heard it so many times that she was fed up of it and in a fit of pique(mummy had acted really weird, hadn't let her down for ages and then had gone to sleep with out even saying goodnight) combined the contrariness of the terrible twos, the only time it really mattered, Rose chose right .

If the devil really looks after his own then Rose should have been done for there and then, death by childish stubbornness wouldn't look good on her gravestone (or plaque, bodies were rarely found or identifiable) but it would be the truth.

But the devil is fickle and apparently he has a soft spot for two year old red heads. After all that's the only explanation possible for why the moment Rose turned right, the moment she should have dammed herself, three things happened.

One, Rose did her first bit of accidental magic and sent Malfoy and Nott zooming away from her.

Two, the order arrived, wands blazing, yelling curses and quickly invading the house so clearly ravaged by dark magic.

Three, Hermione woke up.

Unlike most people who have recently been knocked out, Hermione didn't go through a groggy phase where she dribbled, mumbled and generally looked stupid as she struggled to work out what's going on. No Hermione, in less than a second went from unconsciousness to logical thought process.

Her logical thought process was strongly advising her to hit the dark, former best friend crouching by her side, crooning to her softly under his breath in a strange hissing language she didn't understand.

Or maybe it was her impulsive, emotional side telling her to hit Harry. Because she was sure there was a little voice in her head that sounded an awful lot like reason and it quietly murmuring that perhaps attacking a Death Eater whose already proven to have no qualms about hurting you isn't the greatest of ideas.

Reason would have normally won out but it was Harry. Harry Potter, the boy who lived to betray everyone who cared about him. The man still smirking at her as he traced her head in an oddly possessive manner.

He deserved it.

And he saw it coming.

The problem being, of course, that Hermione never even thought to act casual. No, every emotion, every thought was broadcasted across her face and Harry could read her considerably more easily than he could a book.

The moment Hermione lifted her wrist, prepared to slap him across the face, to release the hatred and betrayal she'd kept bottled up for years., he grabbed her wrist. Grabbed her wrist and squeezed, tighter and tighter and tighter until Hermione was moaning in pain, sure she could hear her bones grinding together.

"Never do that again, Mione." He said softly, tugging her sharply towards him. Everything about that reply had been designed not only to infuriate her but to hurt her. Mione was Ron's special name for her, few apart from Ron had ever been allowed to call him that, all of those privileged few were dead.

Well to be fair one was still alive, but Harry Potter forfeited the right to call her that a long time ago.

While Hermione and Harry had been trapped in their own little world, Malfoy and Nott had been busy, mostly trying to prevent the Order of the Phoenix from killing them or Harry. Hermione surviving would be good, judging by how hard to catch she was, Rose's continuing existence wouldn't.

Their utter unconcern for anyone's life but their own and the fact that the Order's first rule could probably be described as the complete opposite of the Death Eater's philosophy gave them the advantage. The Order were desperately trying not to hit Rose, she was after all related to a good many members. The Death Eaters had no such qualms.

Flashes of red and green were flying everywhere. Screamed curses and the cries of the people who'd been hit echoed in the tiny house and the smoke made it seem like each side was fighting an army. Everyone knew that somewhere in the mess of deadly spells and choking smoke was little Rose Weasley but no one could see her.

Not Hermione, desperately trying to escape from Harry's grip, frantically screaming her daughter's name.

Not Malfoy who was dodging a hex flung by Kingsley Shacklebolt while trying to back away towards Harry.

Not Nott, writhing on the ground under a cruciatus curse thrown by some faceless, nameless Order member, loudly begging for mercy.

And certainly not Harry. He was standing in the centre of it all yet seemed completely unaware of the battle raging around him, normally this would be incredibly stupid but the battle raging didn't seem to take much notice of him or maybe the Order just didn't want to have to kill the boy who lived, even if he did betray them.

It didn't matter anyway since Harry, Malfoy and Nott took that moment to disapperate , Harry's hand still tightly grasping Hermione's wrist.


	4. Chapter 4

It would be fair to say that Hermione Weasley had been under a lot of pressure in recent months. She'd been fighting in a bloody war against people who loathed her and everything she stood for, the fatality lists were filled with her friends, family, even her husband and she had a two year old who made Fred and George look like angels.

It was universally agreed that it was amazing she'd managed to keep so together in the face of such turmoil. Asking her to keep together after being kidnapped by her childhood enemies and ex-best friend after a terse standoff in which her house became a battleground, she was knocked unconscious and her daughter performed her first magic while dodging killing curses was probably a bit much.

Well, there was really no probably involved.

So it really should have been no surprise that when they appeared, tired and dusty from the destruction of her house, in Voldemort's headquarters, she finally broke down. In the most dramatic and dangerous way possible.

More specifically with a cry of rage she wrenched her wrist from Harry's cold grasp and unleashed a wave of pure, unadulterated magic.

A powerful wave that blasted Malfoy and Nott off their feet, caused several apparating Death Eaters to splinch themselves, destroyed the surrounding portraits, obliterated a good deal of the Malfoy family tree and left Harry Potter, former friend and Gryffindor traitor completely untouched.

Much to his amusement and her dismay.

"Still my Mione" he said with a low chuckle, not even attempting to go after her as she backed away, exploring the room.

"I'm not your Mione, I never was." Her hands were clutching the mantelpiece now as she looked around wildly taking in the grumbling Malfoy and Nott who were wearily getting to their feet, the loud, complaining portraits and most importantly of all the room's single exit. The single exit currently being filled by six foot's worth of Boy who lived.

"Don't think about trying to escape Mione, you wouldn't get past the hall. And we have some very interesting," emphasis on the interesting Hermione thought "punishments."

Faced with a man who was threatening enough to show he had some intelligence, had the scars to prove he had a nasty habit of surviving and who apparently immune to your magic most women would feel slightly intimidated.

Then again, most women hadn't sat beside his bed, holding his hand while he was ill. Nor had most women told him off for breaking curfew or for incorrect uniform. Little things like that gave Hermione power.

Power she intended to use.

"Harry, why are you doing this?" She asked softly, her brown eyes slowly searching his face for any trace of a reaction. Emboldened and not a little put out by his lack of response, she continued. "Any of this Harry? I really want to understand but I can't. I don't get it". She began to slowly walk towards him with imploring eyes, her hands stretched out in front of her in a gesture of openness and surrender. "What changed Harry? Why did you betray us?" She was right in front of him now, her hand reaching up to stroke his cheek. "Why did you betray me?"

He didn't answer her question. He did manage to stop her kneeing him in the groin. He grabbed her wrists and used them to pull her away from his body, her knee merely skimming the edge of his Death Eater robes.

The sudden change in momentum upset Hermione's balance. It was only Harry's harsh, bruising grip o her wrists that kept her upright. Admittedly at the expense of slamming her body against his. Hermione disliked the feeling of her body against his. He was a traitor to everything she believed in, touching him was befouling herself. Anyway perhaps betrayal was catching? Any and all such nonsensical points vanished from her mind when she felt his lips lightly touching her ear.

"I'm not stupid Mione" he whispered, obviously enjoying the shiver going through her body at those words if the smirk against her ear was anything to go by. Releasing her, he continued as she backed away.

"I'm not a fool and I won't be played Mione. I've grown up." He reached out to touch her hair and despite her dodging, managed to get enough strands to pull her closer to him. Gently rubbing and running his fingers through her hair he said "not all of us stay the same. Some of us grow up."

"Yes" she said, breaking away from him, leaving a few brown hairs in his large hands. "Some of us were forced too."

They just stood and stared at each other, her eyes filled with fire and fury, his still astonishingly empty, lost in their own little world, in their own little conflict until …

"Hey Potter, quit staring at the mudblood and let's go" yelled Nott standing uncomfortably near the door, Malfoy leaning against the wall indolently to his right. Harry continued to stare at Hermione in the uncomfortable, curious manner of a cat whose trying to decide whether to eat the mouse now or save it for later.

Evidently he decided on the latter option, quickly moving towards Hermione, who tripped over in her rush to avoid him. Harry easily took advantage of such a juvenile mistake, capturing her arms and binding them behind her back with cool manacles.

He pulled her up easily, grabbing her waist and tugging her to her feet. He then forced her forward, his hands still on her waist gripping her firmly, enough to remind her that now wasn't the time to escape. The feel of warm hands on her torso brought back many memories as they followed Nott out the door with Malfoy bringing up the rear.

Hermione barely noticed the ancient, cold decor of the mansion as she was steered through halls filled with hissing portraits. She was lost in her memories, Ron rubbing her belly before Rose was born, Ron blindfolding her for a birthday surprise, Ron kissing her …

No! She scolded herself, don't go there. You need to be strong here Hermione. You're a dead woman walking who happens to know a lot about the Order. They're going to go after you in anyway they can so this is no time to break down.

This was her last thought before she was propelled into a dark room, illuminated only by the light of a few wavering candles.

Unfortunately there was enough light to see Voldemort grinning maliciously surrounded by the cackling, smirking faces of his inner circle including a very gleeful, very dangerous Lucius Malfoy. If ever there was a time to shout every swear word at the top of your voice, this was it.

Hermione let rip.


	5. Chapter 5

The words Hermione Weasley was coming out with at that moment would have made any sailor or indeed any Weasley proud. Hermione gave full credit to Ron, in their years as friends then lovers he'd taught her some great ones.

If Hermione hadn't been so involved in cursing the Dark Lord, the Death Eaters and Harry at that moment in several different languages she might have noticed the reaction of Voldemort and his inner circle.

She would definitely have laughed.

The small collection of pureblood men and women were stunned to silence at such an outburst and several, though it was barely discernable in the candle light, were blushing. Others were eyeing her warily as if afraid she'd gone mad, perhaps afraid that she was suffering from some form of disease that could possibly be contagious. Harry chose to emit another low chuckle while the faintest of sinister smiles briefly appeared on Voldemort's mouth.

Hermione was acting like such a Gryffindor, and Gryffindors were easy to manipulate.

It took a few minutes for Hermione to recognise the awkward and uneasy silence that surrounded her. Suddenly she was aware of the level of malevolence in the room. Suddenly describing how she wanted to kill Voldemort in crude language and emphatic hand gestures wasn't helping anymore.

She straightened up, brushing her robes quickly with her hands as she did so before giving each of the room's occupants a disdainful look. A look that screamed I'm better than you and always will be. Many of the purebloods present curled their lips at such a show of defiance from someone as inferior as Hermione Weasley, the mud blood who'd married the blood traitor.

Some more time passed as they swapped sneering looks with each other but unlike the Slytherins who could spend all day looking arrogant and condescending, Hermione had only so much patience.

Right before that patience snapped, Harry reclaimed the arm she had wrenched out of his grip earlier and started to move her forwards. The pureblood moved away from her like ripples in a pond as she got closer to Voldemort.

Hermione knew correct Death Eater procedure, spying and intelligence gathering had done that but there was no way she was going to bow to that foul, serpent-faced tyrant, let alone kiss the hem of his robes. Unfortunately Harry's hands on her wrist and back had other ideas and she found the pressure he exerted too great to avoid bowing.

With the laughs of Death Eaters echoing around the dimly lit room, Hermione had never felt more humiliated. The fact that Harry still hadn't let her come up from the bow, instead making her remain bent at the waist might have something to do with that.

She couldn't see how the situation could get worse. Then Harry placed both his hands on her shoulders and pushed her down onto her knees, the force he exerted preventing her from rising.

"This is the famous mud blood?" asked Voldemort his high voice filled with some secret undertone that Hermione couldn't understand. He seemed so high up when he spoke, a million miles from the shivering woman on the ground. Doubtless this was the effect that Voldemort and Harry had intended, a rather unsubtle and definitely unslytherin way of reminding her of her true place in life she though despondently.

The conversation between Voldemort and Harry above her head continued, the only thing that confirmed they even knew Hermione existed was the slight tightening of Harry's grasp whenever she shuffled, trying to stop her legs going numb. It could be a fatal disadvantage if she ever gets the opportunity to run.

Hermione had never liked being ignored, hence the enthusiastic hand waving incidents in class. Being ignored then was annoying, being ignored now was just downright insulting. Waiting for a strategic point in the conversation, Hermione coughed slightly with an added "hem hem" in an uncanny intimation of Professor Umbridge.

Harry and Voldemort were clearly not impressed and carried on their rather hissy conversation. Hermione only just realised then that they were switching from parselmouth to English in one breath.

Hermione tried a few more coughs, coughs that had the Weasley eagerly claiming innocence but they still had no effect. Bored with subtly and realising she would get no help from the harsh figures of the inner circle, Hermione took matters into her own hands.

Though calling the greatest dark wizard since Grindelwald "a snake-faced, idiotic bastard who gets beaten by babies" probably wasn't her finest hour.

The atmosphere in the room which wasn't particularly pleasant to begin with suddenly became a thousand times colder. The inner circle shuffled back slightly, their eyes glittering at the possibility of torturing her and watching her get tortured. Neither the fast spin in her direction nor the tightening of his hand on his bone ivory wand spoke well for her continued existence but dying for your friends and families, dying for everything you believe in when fighting against the man who wants to rip your rights away seemed like a good way to go.

If there actually was a good way to die.

Hermione braced herself and reconfirmed her Order oath, she would not reveal anything about anyone. Her eyes shut, she awaited the evitable pain.

Instead, however, Voldemort laughed. A high, cruel, cold sound that rang around the room, like grass shattering.

His inner circle had nervously joined in now, a few sneaking glances at Voldemort trying to work out why he was laughing.

Voldemort snapped his fingers and a throne formed out of carved, writhing wooden serpent appeared next to him. Sitting in it like it was a throne, he beckoned Hermione forward, grabbing her face securely in one hand as she tried to back away from him.

"So you are the mudblood who thinks she is so much better than her lords and masters?" His harsh hold on her face relaxed slightly, not enough to allow her to break away but enough so that his bruising grip became oddly caressing.

"Yes, you have done well my little snake" he said to Harry still looking at Hermione who was aghast at Voldemort's obvious affection for Harry. The nickname, odd as it was, certainly proved it. "She will be perfect."

Hermione wished she could ask Voldemort what he meant by those words but her lips, her very body did not seem to be obeying its own orders. By the time she regained any form of mental capacity, Harry had already propelled her through the door and out of the room.

She nearly tried to turn back and demand Voldemort clarify his statement but Harry's pace and her own uneasiness stopped her. Her mind was still racing trying to decipher what he meant. For damm it all, she needed to know.

Though thinking back to Voldemort's queer, almost lustful smile, Hermione wasn't sure she wanted too.


	6. Chapter 6

The portraits on the walls were hissing insults at her. She didn't know if it was because she was a mudblood, the first ever to walk along the hallowed corridors of Malfoy Manor or if it was because her wave of magic earlier had destroyed a few portraits. She didn't particularly care either.

They were just another enemy to be fought and Hermione was tired of fighting. Tired of hatred, tired of fear, tired of everything. In fact had Harry's hand on her arm not been do tight or his pace so fast, she probably would have just stopped, stopped in the middle of a house that hated her and cried.

She came pretty close to doing that. Sobs were rising in her throat and tears were beginning to mist over her eyes. Her struggles against Harry's grip were no less ineffectual but they were wilder and strong. Different enough for him to notice.

"Will you stop that" he half whispered, half yelled, glaring at her, his green eyes filled with annoyance. Hermione didn't answer. Speaking wouldn't change anything, it's only possible outcome would be weeping and Hermione Weasley was not going to let them see her cry. No one saw her cry. Particularly not Harry "the boy who betrayed" Potter.

She continued to squirm in his hold.

"I said stop that", his large hands forced her to obey, relinquishing her wrists and grasping her shoulders before she had time to run. She lashed out with her feet, kicking him in the shins. He didn't react except to tighten his grip on her shoulders. She looked away an ashamed look on her face. A completely false ashamed look on her face. This time she aimed her kick higher.

He reacted to that, quickly dodging the blow that would have put an end to any hopes of future progeny. He just stared at her for a moment, enough time to make her feel safe. Then he smashed her against the walls, her wrists held securely either side of her head, his body sufficiently close enough to hers to stop anymore kicks.

Hermione was scared now, she couldn't deal with this Harry, this empty, changeable Harry. She knew too little about him and what she did know was only useful if she was willing to play with fire. And get considerably burnt.

"I don't think you fully get what's going on here Mione." His words were vicious and the emphasis he put on a name he'd long ago forfeited the rights to say, hurt her more than he could possibly grasp. The tears in her eyes began to roll down her cheeks, If her hands had been free, she would have defiantly wiped them from her eyes while glaring at him. As it was she could only rattle her wrists in his grip and swallow down the sobs that threatened to erupt.

Tears could be dignified, sobs could not.

"Can't you use that supposedly big brain of yours to figure this out Mione?" He punctuated every breath with a shake, rattling the complaining but curious portraits on the wall. Hermione did not react, turning her face away.

He transferred her wrists to his left hand and held them above her head, with his other hand he grabbed her chin and roughly turned it back to him. He let out a hoarse chuckle. "You used to be so smart Mione, what happened to you?"

He released her chin forcefully, sending her head careening back into the wall and adding to the head wound Harry had created earlier. Perhaps the earlier head wound had knocked the fight out if her, perhaps the latest head wound knocked the fight back in. Whatever the true situation, Hermione's Gryffindor courage came rushing to the surface at that moment.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Harry's eyes lost their life, a sign, Hermione was beginning to note, that Harry was going into a towering rage which apparently often involved using her head to demolish walls. Nevertheless she continued regardless. It was a learning experience, an experiment and a question she wanted answered desperately.

"After all Harry, I haven't really changed. I'm still the Gryffindor bookworm, the best friend of the late Ronald Weasley, Hogwarts' former head girl and previously one of St. Mungo's top healers. Nothing different about me. I'm not the one who sold out on my friends and my family, I'm not the one who turned my back on my beliefs, on the right, I'm not the one who joined and helped resurrect the evil megalomaniac who murdered my parents am I Harry? Am I?"

Her voice was getting louder and louder as she spoke, her voice getting faster and faster as she got more and more passionate. She was screaming at an unintelligible rate when Harry backhanded her with a hoarse, whispered order to be quiet.

Blood was gushing from her head after his latest assault. "Merlin Harry, this is becoming a nasty habit." She said as she squirmed around, trying to staunch the blood flow.

"Just listen to me Mione." He wasn't mocking her now, his voice had a sort of plaintive quality to it. She might of actually sneaked a look at his face had she not been slightly woozy from all the blood loss so more preoccupied with keeping her eyelids open.

"You're in the centre of the Dark Lord's base of operations, surrounded by people who hate you and everything you stand for. In fact you are in the house of a Death Eater whose legs you blew off!" It was only the presence of his hand over her mouth that stopped her from interrupting at this point but despite the urge to correct his inaccuracy, Hermione did not bite his hand and blurt out the truth. She let him continue.

"Can you imagine what they want to do to you Mione? What kind of horrible games they have planned for you? There are wizards and witches here with no parents or spouse or even a child because of you."

Here Hermione had to interrupt. She had never hurt a child in her life and had no plans to do so. There wasn't time for it though and Harry managed to drown out her protests with his whispered claims.

"They'll rip you a part in every possible way and eat the pieces Mione, and they'll enjoy it. Draco and Theo have agreed not to get involved but that's it. They're not going to protect you. The only time you're safe is in your rooms or with me."

Hermione hated the way the names Theo and Draco tripped off Harry's tongue. The names were obviously so familiar, in a way Ron and Mione once were. Such a shocking yet small reminder of how Harry had changed had stopped her from paying proper attention to the rest of Harry's sentence.

The only time you're safe is in your rooms or with me. The words were ominous, their meaning clear.

Despite the worrying implications of everything Harry had just said Hermione managed to find her voice and was pleased to note that there was only the slightest of tremors at the thought of Voldemort's inner circle stalking her in the unfriendly corridors of Malfoy Manor, planning to brutalise and murder her in the worst possible way. Well there was a slight quaver, but that could be passed off as fatigue.

"I thought Voldemort needed me for something."

Harry flinched at the name.

"He never said he needed you alive."


	7. Chapter 7

Hermione stood there, as if in shock. Death had always been the obvious outcome of this encounter but it had never really sunk in. Fear and then anger had eclipsed any logical thought process and quite frankly there had been too many distractions to make any great, mental leaps or indeed to make any small, mental leaps.

There were no distractions now though, well other than Harry's incessant tugging on her arm while he looked around quickly, and Hermione had time to realise something.

She was going to die.

That wasn't exactly a big revelation. Unlike Voldemort, Hermione had no pretences about her own mortality, she knew everybody dies someday, she knew she was going to die someday. She just didn't know someday was today.

"I know the brightest mud blood in Hogwarts likes to think things through, but would you please defer those thoughts until you're safe and just move." Harry spat in her ear, his sharp pull on her arm nearly overbalancing her.

"I'm going to die" she said in a surprised whisper. "Today. I'm going to see Ron again." Her voice was filled with a bleak hope but Harry could hear the words she wasn't saying.

And I'm never going to see Rose again.

Tears overflowed again and a fresh wave of silent cries shook her body. She wasn't sobbing or speaking but her lips were moving nevertheless, mouthing the same words over and over again. My daughter, my beautiful, darling daughter.

Her eyes were doing too good an impression of waterfalls for them to be any use as seeing implements so Hermione didn't notice the rapidly narrowing distance between her and Harry's body or the hand approaching her face.

She did feel the hand when it stroked her cheek though, wiping away her tears with a rough thumb.

"Don't cry" he murmured, one hand still on her cheek, the other clutching her arm tightly. "I don't like seeing you cry."

As if his dislike meant anything to her. As if his dislike could stop her tears.

Their bodies were touching now in some gross parody of a lover's embrace and both hands were gently massaging whichever bit of flesh they were currently touching. "I've always hated it when you cry." He said, nuzzling her softly.

"Why do you make me do it so often then?"

He recoiled as if she'd slapped him and his eyes instantly went hard. He'd seemed almost human for a second there and Hermione nearly regretted her words. Key word being nearly.

Harry grabbed her arm again and began to jog, Hermione stumbled along behind him cursing softly. They continued to move like this through several corridors until Harry abruptly stopped.

The sound of footsteps didn't.

"Shut up" he whispered vehemently, his hand moving to cover her mouth as he pulled her into a dark nook. She protested feebly, tired after the days events. He forced his body against hers and pushed down on her mouth. "If you want to live, be quiet."

She was silent. People wearing black cloaks rushed past their hiding place and Hermione was sure she could hear the screeching tones of Bellatrix Lestrange. Funny she thought, I was sure we'd got her.

Life had taken on a sort of surreal quality for Hermione. She felt like she was trapped in an old movie, everything was a bit slower, a bit greyer, a bit more blurred than normal.

She was knocked out of her contemplation of what old film her life would be by a rough shove from Harry. She fell out of the nook, sprawling out onto the thickly carpeted floor. The laughs of portraits filled the air.

"What was that?' A voice spoke in the distance, Hermione thought it sounded like Barty Crouch Junior .

"The mud blood, she must be near." Definitely Bellatrix Lestrange. Damn. The Order had been so pleased to get her. Neville had celebrated for weeks.

"It came from over there! Ask the portraits!" Rodolphus Lestrange, Bellatrix's husband and the only sane one in the family, hence the good idea with the portraits.

Hermione heard Harry shift above her. Moving swiftly, he dragged her off the floor and began to run, no sprint in the opposite direction. The portraits were calling out instructions to the following Death Eaters and though they weren't yet close enough to start cursing her, they soon would be.

Harry stopped running suddenly and seemed to come to a decision. Pushing Hermione behind him, he turned to face the oncoming purebloods.

The moment they realised Harry had chosen to fight rather than run, the Death Eaters slowed down. Rodolphus and Barty took on wary looks, their wands out and their eyes flickering from side to side as they tried to figure out Harry's most likely move. They knew his fighting style well, they'd both trained him but he'd long ago reached the point where the pupil surpasses the teacher.

They passed messages silently as Bellatrix laughed gleefully, craning her neck to try and see round Harry, see Hermione. Eyes flashing with agreement, Barty prepared to summon a patronus. That was when Harry pounced.

Sending a quick curse towards Rodolphus, he moved towards Bellatrix. She might be a formidable witch but she was no muggle fighter. Dodging the hex she sent flying towards him, Harry punched her. She hit the floor. Barty was back in the game now, the patronus he sent finding reinforcements even as they thought. Everyone wanted a piece of the Gryffindor mudblood responsible for so much death.

Barty was playing for time, ducking and diving around the curses Harry was sending his way. But he had forgotten something. Harry wasn't the only threat.

You see the trouble with old mansions is that they tend to have a lot of unusual decorations, shrunken heads and stuffed dodos were some of the more interesting features in this particular corridor. But it was the suits of armour you should watch out for.

Now Hermione wasn't in much condition to pick up a sword and charge into the fray of black cloaks and colourful sparks. On the other hand, to pick up a helmet and lob it at Barty Crouch Junior, the man who beat even Trelawney and Snape to win the title of teacher Hermione hates the most, was well within her capabilities.

Now Barty had no problem avoiding the helmet, her throw was slow and her aim dodgy. It did however distract him for a second. And a second was all Harry took.

The other Death Eaters hadn't yet arrived but judging from the echoes they soon would. Harry stepped over Barty's barely breathing body calmly and quickly grabbed Hermione by the neck. Pushing her in front of him, they began to run again.

Hermione felt the first twinge of a stitch after only a few minutes running, adrenaline can only take you so far and her body was beginning to protest. Slowing to a halt, she bent over, clutching her side tightly while Harry looked around, listening carefully for any sounds of pursuit.

Hermione stared up at him questioningly as the pain abated.

"Harry" she whispered, her voice hoarse from lack of breath. "Why did you do that?"

He looked at her, a question in his otherwise empty green eyes.

"Help me, protect me, fight for me." Her voice was getting louder and louder and more and more confused. Harry raised a finger to his lips, a silent reminder of their need for quietness. Her voice was barely audible when she continued. " Why did you save me?"

Something else flashed suddenly in those lifeless eyes and he quickly walked towards her. She backed away but he was too fast, reaching out he grabbed her, smashing her body against his. One arm went around her waist, the other around her neck and chest, pulling her into his body, forcing her to meld all her curves against him.

He bent down, his breath moving her hair, sending shivers she couldn't conceal down her spine. He smiled as he felt her body trembling, the curve of his mouth pressed against her ear.

"Because you're mine."

Hermione inhaled sharply, the possessiveness of his voice and his arms scaring her.

His voice turned into a hiss.

"And no one can touch what is mine."


	8. Chapter 8

Mine. Mine. Mine. The word seemed to mock her. It accompanied every pound of her beating heart and every thudding footstep as they raced away from the other Death Eaters. It echoed in her head and rang in her ears. Nothing Harry said or did could distract her from it.

_You're mine._

What on earth did he mean by that? Mine to do what with? To kill or to keep? To do or to die? And which was worse? If she had a choice, which fate would she choose? All these questions running round her mind, forever underscored by the steady beat of mine, mine, mine, were giving her a headache. She just wanted to sleep. To sleep and perhaps to dream.

To dream of Ron, of Rose, of everything and anything Harry had not managed to taint completely.

A small part of her brain, the only part not overwhelmed by the day's events, was informing her in a voice Professor McGonagall would be proud of that sleeping was the worse thing she could do right now, that she was probably suffering from concussion.

It was telling her that Harry's apparent love of either hitting her or throwing her against walls was finally affecting her, that if she went to sleep now there was a strong chance she wouldn't be waking up again.

It was mark of how bad she thought the situation, that for a moment that sounded like a good idea.

After all, she'd be with Ron again, in a place where war couldn't touch their courtship, in a place where every second wouldn't be stolen in-between tears and terror, in a perfect place where no one could hurt them.

And in this perfect place, there would be no Harry, no betrayal, no darkness.

She'd live, if that is what it should indeed be called, with her parents, with the Weasleys and as strange as it sounds, with most of her teachers. Perhaps there, she'd regain the innocence she lost.

Perhaps she'd believe that good will conquer evil, that darkness doesn't infect everyone and that no matter how tempting the offer, people can find the strength to resist the devil.

In other words, perhaps she'd believe everything real life has taught her is false.

In a way, it would be so much easier to give in. She wouldn't be the first to stop fighting, to forget reality and descend into dreams of happier times.

But to stop fighting would be surrendering and Gryffindors never say die.

Well, she amended, true Gryffindors don't. Harry was almost put in Slytherin. He didn't count. Neither for that matter did Wormtail. It was a matter of statistics she decided. The sorting hat had divided thousands of witches and wizards over hundreds of years, it was bound to get it wrong sometimes.

Harry was just one of those times.

It would hurt less, she'd long ago decided, if Harry had been a Slytherin all along. The fact the man dragging her forward through dark corridors had once called her friend made the fact he now called her mudblood so painful. Agonisingly painful.

How she'd gone from mate to mudblood to mine, she wasn't quite sure. But she definitely didn't like the change.

She wanted to ask him that question. She wanted to ask him a lot of questions but one look at his face told her that now wasn't a good time. Besides she doubted her woozy wits would be able to keep up with any answers.

If indeed she really did want to hear them.

Harry was slowing down now. His hand was still tight around her wrist but jogging leisurely. As if he had all the time in the world. Hermione considered running; but she was so lost in the labyrinth of shadowy corridors that made up Malfoy Manor. She'd never find an exit.

And no one would ever find her. If the Death Eaters didn't get her then she'd starve. Or fall into some horrid trap. A troop of aurors had almost been crushed to death in the first of two raids on the manor. She didn't know what happened to the people on the second raid.

None of them ever came back.

Harry finally came to a stop in passage with no portraits. Releasing her wrist but keeping his other hand close enough to his wand for Hermione to understand the futility of trying to escape, Harry turned to a wood panelled wall.

Harry leaned close to the wall, gently placing his right hand on it. His eyes though were still on Hermione whose eyes in turn were firmly on Harry, watching for any sign that he wasn't paying attention.

Freeing her wrist might be the mistake she was waiting for.

They stood there looking at each other for a time. It couldn't have been more than a few minutes but to Hermione it felt like half a lifetime. And it was a lifetime she'd rather forget. She felt like she was drowning in it, in the memories…

Until a hoarse whisper by Harry made her flinch and look away. She'd never get used to him speaking parseltongue. It sounded unnatural. Wrong.

The wall was melting away now, enveloping them in grey smoke. Harry turned and grabbed Hermione's wrist again. He has turned into a very grabby man she thought, as he pulled her into what she assumed were his quarters, falling over as they crossed the threshold.

She lay on the floor clutching her right ankle as the wall reformed behind her. Slipping one hand into her boot, she glared up at Harry.

He looked deep in thought as he settled himself into a green armchair. Hermione half expected him to start chewing on a pipe, as he sat brooding, the dim lighting of the room throwing strange shadows across his face.

Hermione didn't rush to stand up. Instead she lay there on the cold stone flagstones and took the room in. It was reasonably large but other than a bookcase and the armchair contained little furniture. Old tapestries insulated the walls and there were four or five large oak doors leading off to other rooms. Hermione thought she could hear someone crying behind the nearest.

She still didn't move though the feel of Harry's eyes roaming her body made her want to shudder. She wished he would look away, go away. Anything but continue to stare at her.

Funny how wishes are granted isn't it?

Harry did stop staring at her but only after she began to shiver. By then she was examining the tapestry showing a fourteenth century muggle hunt while the slabs of stone leached the heat out of her body.

His cloak swished as he walked over, pooling around his feet like puddles of oil when he crouched down beside her.

Harry gently rolled her over, large hands checking the temperature of her forehead and cheeks. Concern was written all over his features as he began to check her vitals with his wand, cursing softly under his breath. She had never seen him this caring before.

So naturally that was when she stabbed him.


	9. Chapter 9

This wasn't the first time Hermione had used her knife and she doubted it would be the last. The knife had always been her final resort, a whispered promise to Ron had ensured that she carried it with her constantly and there had been many times that she had been thankful for that promise.

Still, she hated using it. Stabbing someone was so much harder than cursing them, so much more intimate. Avada Kedavra was instant, callous and it left no time for regrets. You didn't have to watch them die, you didn't have to see the blood.

And there was always so much blood. Warm, wet and so very red, it would sink into her clothes never to be removed. It would cling to her skin, matt in her hair and dry under her nails until she looked like the murderer she was.

So Hermione knew what it was like to stab someone, to kill up close and personal because she's done it far too many times.

Which was why she was surprised, to see green blood pouring out of Harry Potter's body.

Green, cold blood she realised through her hazy shock as it dripped onto her. Green cold blood that stung.

She sat up, wrestling her blood drenched jumper over her head and throwing it as far away from her as she could. There were already angry marks where the blood had touched her, shining vibrantly red against her pale skin.

There were more blotches of crimson skin on her legs, the denim shorts she was wearing hadn't protected her. Panicking slightly as the pain grew, Hermione lashed out, kicking Harry and his slowing fountain of stinging blood away from her.

It didn't help. She was still sitting in a pool of blood and it was still running down her legs, beginning to sink into her skin. The thought of Harry's emerald green blood merging with her own, flowing in her bloodstream, living in her body terrified her.

And that fear made her wake up, made her take action.

Her legs were twitching uncontrollably, pain shooting up and down them like lightning, an agony so fierce she couldn't tell whether it felt like they'd been dipped in ice or fire.

Pushing herself to her knees, she crawled in a jerky, trembling fashion over to where Harry had fallen. His hair obscured his face but she didn't think his eyes were open. Not that she looked for long. She grabbed the cloak that covered his injuries, easily pulling it off him. Ignoring the blood-stained areas she began to mop up the blood slowly sinking into her legs, flinching every time it touched an affected area.

It hadn't yet occurred to her to check on Harry. So it wasn't until her legs stopped shaking and her frantic breaths slowed down that she realised.

There had been no moans, no cries, no screams. There had been no last minute pleas or revenge attempts. Harry had died silently. If indeed he had died she thought.

If it had been an ordinary person she would have had no doubt about that fact, she was good with her knife and there had been far too much blood for anyone to have survived even if it had been a flesh wound.

But Harry wasn't an ordinary person. Ordinary people don't bleed green blood. In fact, peering over her shoulder she was almost surprised to still see him lying where she'd kicked him

Turning back round to look at her scarlet marked legs, she smiled. She'd half expected him to melt away like a witch in a fairy tale.

"But no, that would have been far too convenient" she mumbled.

"Wouldn't it just."

Hermione spun around quickly, hair flying around her face like it was caught in a windstorm. Harry grabbed her, pushing her back against the tapestry-clad wall. With one hand he held her wrists high above her head so her toes barely skimmed the blood covered floor.

Hermione was almost speechless, looking at Harry like he was some hallucination, some terror from beyond the grave. He shouldn't have survived that she thought, breaths escaping her mouth in frightened little pants and even if he had he shouldn't have been able to move so fast.

In her shock, a breathless "How?" was all she could manage but that was enough to make the corner of Harry's mouth turn upwards in a mocking, sardonic smile.

"Magic" was the only verbal answer she received but it didn't matter, the physical answer was far more illuminating.

Harry's other hand had previously been hanging loosely by his side but now it reached up and freed one of her wrists. With a tight grip, he forced her hand down, through the tear in his robes where the knife had entered and exited. His stomach was still covered in blood but Harry's hold wouldn't let her draw back despite the stinging. His hand forced her to touch his stomach, to draw her fingers up and down and find…

Nothing.

There was no wound, no gash, no damage or mutilation. Just stinging blood and skin that felt almost scaly to touch and when her eyes travelled down she could have sworn it was tinged a green that wasn't due to blood alone.

He finally allowed her hand to withdraw, pushing it back up to join it's partner in the grasp of his other hand. She just stood there for a second in shock before looking up at him with terrified eyes.

"What are you?"

He smiled lazily, trailing his fingers up and down the bare expanse of her arm despite he little shivers. He seemed to find her tremors funny, particularly how they increased as he ran his fingers up her shoulder and onto her neck. His fingers paused there again for a second, drawing little circles, pressing down to feel her frightened pulse. But they moved on, dancing up with feathery touches to her face, then finally her lips. Hermione could barley breathe at this point as he drew his fingers over the chapped skin like it was the finest of silk. He looked down at her, still smiling.

"What am I? Oh Mione, not even I know that."


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, please don't sue me.

Perhaps it was the fact that Harry's body was pressed against her, the incredible heat radiating off it making her feel faint or perhaps it was the slow, languid movement of Harry's fingers over her mouth and the suggestion that rose up unbidden and unwanted that maybe he would prefer lips to be undertaking that action. Perhaps it was because she was suffering from a mixture of exhaustion, concussion and shock. Whatever the reason Hermione could not remember anything about green blood.

Not one single thing.

She knew she had read something about it. Hogwarts had one of the most comprehensive magical libraries in the world, and during her years at the school as well as her time as a researcher for the order she had read almost every book it contained.

Particularly any book about dark magic and there was no doubt in her mind that green blood meant dark magic.

Frustration coursed through her body as she desperately searched through her memories for the information she needed . In her in her mind's eye she could picture the book that contained the details, even the page it was written on but the words continued to elude her.

Her anger must have shown on her face because she heard a soft chuckle that sent chills tap-dancing down her back. How Harry's warm, exuberant laugh had transformed into that Hermione didn't know and quite frankly she didn't want to.

Something as light as laughing should never sound so dark.

It was during Hermione's musings that Harry's movements began to change. The circles the fingers were making over the tender skin of Hermione's lips grew wider and began to migrate south. The digits danced over her chin and began to wander down her neck.

There was a moment when Hermione feared that the southward path would continue, that Harry's hand would find their way under her bedraggled t-shirt.

She believed it was an irrational fear. The same kind of alarm that makes your footsteps sound like a follower's when you're walking in the dark, a silly little throwback to days when women weren't so independent. Despite all his actions to suggest the contrary, despite the unease of her subconscious and despite the screaming of her instincts Hermione didn't actually believe Harry wanted her, not in that way.

Still it was a relief when his hand went no further than her neck.

Or at least it was a relief until he began to tighten it.

Hermione had given some thought as to how she would die, most people who dice with death regularly have. She'd always thought she'd go out in a blaze of glory, in a storm of bright flashes and sparks signifying curses and hexes. She'd always thought she'd go down fighting and she'd always hoped her death would mean something. A forlorn hope perhaps, most deaths are meaningless, but a hope nevertheless.

She'd never imagined she'd die with her back against a cloth covered wall with both hands held above her head while her ex-best friend's body was forced against hers to stop her kicking him as he choked the life out of her.

It was such a mad way to die, like something out of a nightmare. Except if this was a nightmare she would be waking up rather than going to sleep.

Hermione struggled for oxygen, her mouth gaping open almost obscenely as the room began to dim. Over Harry's shoulder she could see the moving tapestry on the opposite wall. The wizards and witches had been pursuing the muggles wildly throughout the real conflict being enacted before them. They had just caught up with the fleeing muggles when the room went black.

The moment her eyes closed and her head lolled, Harry let go of her, not bothering to catch her as she crashed to the floor. She took in a first shuddering, wracking breath as the wounds on her head began to bleed again, the red blood emanating out from her head like some kind of deathly halo.

If Harry had been watching, he would have seen Hermione's blood spread until it came close to his own emerald pools. He would have seen a curious reaction that proved all the Dark Lord's theories. But Harry had never doubted those theories, so he needed no proof and thus needed no look.

Instead, bending down beside her, he was entranced with a very different site. A necklace or perhaps a collar of purple fingerprints circled Hermione's neck, bruises blooming quickly on the pale skin even as Harry stared at her. By now Hermione's skin was an explosion of colour, there were angry red marks, faded yellow bruises, brown dried blood and there was even a faintly blue tinge to her face, a legacy of her recent lack of oxygen.

All these marks were painful but Harry delighted in each one. He stroked and petted each battle wound, crooning in his own hissing way. Intelligible words spilt out from his lips as he examined Hermione, spilt out in such a way that it was impossible to tell whether he was speaking pareseltounge or normal English.

Some time had passed before Harry had finished cataloguing the wounds on Hermione's legs, arms and head. Despite doing nothing to treat them, just looking at them seemed to put Harry in a good mood and as he got to his feet there was a small sinister smile on his face.

Stooping, he picked up one of Hermione's limp arms slinging it round his shoulder, his own arms found their way under her knees and back. He easily picked up he frail, unconscious frame and kicking open one of the oak doors, carried her into his bedroom in a grotesque parody of a bride being carried over the threshold.

The heavy swung shut by itself as Harry settled him and Hermione onto the green sheets of his bed. Ignoring all the blood and grime that covered it, he pulled her head into his lap and lay back, content to stay like that, playing with her hair and stroking the old scar hidden just below the hairline.

Meanwhile, outside in the dark and gloom of the first room the emerald blood of Harry chased the ruby blood of Hermione round and round the chamber like Laelaps and the Teumessian fox.

But there was no Zeus to interfere this time in the contradiction of the inescapable chasing the uncatchable. And in the morning all that was left was pile of ashes.

A pile of ashes floating in a pool of green blood.


	11. Chapter 11

Hermione woke up twice that night. The first time, woozy and disorientated she could barely make out the dark, heavy furniture and the flickering flames of the candles. The strange surroundings confused her and outside blurry shapes and dancing shadows the only thing she noted was the sterile smell of cleaning spells.

Her head was slightly clearer the second time and before the ever moving hands of Harry stroked her back to sleep to the sound of a crooning melody, she glimpsed iron manacles attached to a corner of the room, gleaming in such a way as to suggest they'd needed a thorough scouring after their last use.

The third time she woke was many hours later and she did not immediately open her eyes. She didn't have too to realise that she was no longer in Harry's bedroom. The soft, velvet cover had been replaced by a hard, damp floor and the familiar feel of cold chains encircled her wrists and ankles. Harry's hands no longer caressed her brow and his strange parseltongue lullaby had been replaced by keening female voice.

Hermione's throat felt like sandpaper, her head like stone and her eyes like shattered glass but the sobs couldn't be ignored. They made the hair on the back of her arms stand on end. It was a sound Hermione knew well. It was the song of pure sorrow and Hermione had sung it far too many times in her short life.

Hermione had experienced enough grief to know that nothing could comfort someone making that sound but she was too kind, too caring to not try. Straining her eyes in the dim light of the dungeon, she faced the corner emitting the pained noise.

Her first whisper was so hoarse as to be inaudible; her second attempt was no less pathetic. It was not until her third slightly louder effort that the keening stopped and with a clanking of the chains the dungeon's other inhabitant crept slightly closer to the light and slightly closer to Hermione.

She was a horrifying sight. Clothed only in silver chains and filthy rags, her bottom half was drenched in dried blood and the arms clutching a bundle to her belly were mutilated by self-inflicted scratches. Her face was swollen with tears and torture, the remains of her hacked off hair sticking up in golden tufts revealing a pale, delicate scalp.

Once this woman was beautiful but under the influence of dirt and despair she was barely recognisable.

Hermione's heart broke into a thousand pieces as recognition finally dawned on her and the pain her own eyes mirrored the pain that inhabited the blonde's. A name fell from cracked lips.

"Fleur?"

Hermione looked closer now, looked at the woman who was once her sister-in-law and always her friend.

And she felt like weeping.

Fleur didn't look at Hermione, though a slight tensing of her grime-streaked shoulders betrayed the fact she'd heard her name. She cuddled her bundle closer and rocked backwards and forwards in a strange inhuman silence.

It was clear to Hermione that it would be down to her to make the first move and despite her aching limbs, she slowly began to crawl closer to Fleur. The seconds stretched into minutes and the minutes seemed to stretch into hours as Hermione's slow dragging progress brought her steadily nearer, until finally she was close enough to lift up her hand and wipe the tears from Fleur's eyes.

To gently tug at the arms circling the bundle wrapped in rags and despite feeble protests from the mad eyed Fleur, remove it from her tightening hands to take a proper look at it.

Hermione's eyes had seen many horrors and every scrap of innocence had long ago been scraped out from her body by Death Eaters. But this, this was something else. If Hermione ever created a list of sights she wished she'd never had to see, this would top it every time.

It was a baby.

The bundle was a small, cold, dead baby.

A tiny little girl whose blue body was draped in filthy rags and her head crowned with a smattering of red hair though whether it was from the Weasleys or the blood that accompanied her into this harsh, uncaring world Hermione could not tell. Her eyes were empty blue and her limbs stiff. Whatever soul, whatever sparks of life that had once inhabited this pathetic body had long disappeared.

Fleur's arms were still outstretched and their emptiness beckoned for the return of the frail baby who never had a chance at life. Looking into her despairing eyes, Hermione could not deny her and gently, ever so gently as if the baby could be woken up by the slightest jolt, Hermione handed the baby back to Fleur who desperately began to cry as she cradled her again.

Hermione heard more sobs echo through the dungeon and it took her a minute to realise these were welling up from her throat. It was too much for her, this blood spattered baby who had clearly entered this world far too early to ever stand a chance at surviving it and the mother who had so fiercely fought for it and even when the war was lost still couldn't quite give up.

Hermione felt an arm wrap itself around her shoulders and realising that Fleur was attempting to give comfort quickly returned the favour to someone who needed and deserved it far more her. Their keening wails mingled into a tragic melody as they mourned.

It seemed an endless eternity before their cries died down, their heads hurting from such a raw, prolonged expression of grief. Exhaustion and sorrow was deeply etched on their faces but they did not yet succumb to sleep.

Instead, with a wordless communication that can only exist between mothers, they separated and began to gather the straw they sat on, creating a pile on the stone floor underneath the single torch.

Fleur took her time with her final goodbye but relinquished her baby freely, nestling it in the soft straw with a promise of love. It was with unspoken agreement that Hermione shuffled towards the torch bearing aloft a single rag to light before passing the flaming cloth onto Fleur.

There was a certain hesitation as Fleur held it but it didn't last long. There was nothing she could do now for her daughter but speed her on to a better place and hope that vengeance would be swift coming.

It took time for the flame to catch hold, the straw was slightly damp and humans do not burn well without outside aid but soon the dungeon was illuminated by fiery colours.

The fire danced on the walls with the shadows and in the eyes of the mothers who watched, both half-mad from grief. Both utterly exhausted.

But the fire was out and the ashes were cold by the time sleep welcomed them into her beckoning arms, hatred still gleaming in their eyes.


End file.
